Desire

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Mud Vein (2014)

  We have never spoken about the kiss we shared when we thought we were dying. He breathes into my mouth as his hands run up the length of my thighs. His hands feel like warm water running across my skin. I cold shiver. My robe is hiked up to the top of my thighs. When his palms leave my legs, I want to cry out, No! I want more of the warmth, but he reaches up and grabs both lapels of my robe, pulling it open and exposing my chest. I’m frozen. Numb. He touches my scars. My barren womanhood. Frozen … frozen … frozen … and then I break open. I gasp and grab his hands, pushing them away. “What are you doing?” He doesn’t answer me. He lifts his hands to my neck. Wherever he touches me there is heat. I roll my head back and his thumbs graze my jaw. “What I want,” he says. I roll my head to the left to try to pull away from him, but he pushes his hand into my hair at the back of my head, and kisses the side of my neck until I’m shivering. He has me at a disadvantage; I’m trying to keep myself upright with one hand and push him away with the other. Eventually, my hand slips out from under me and we collapse on the table. He kisses me. Hard at first—like he’s angry—but when I touch his face he softens. It’s when his lips drag slowly across mine, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth that I relax. My legs lift off of the table and my feet cradle his waist. Heat; heat on the arches of my feet, heat on my mouth, heat pressed between my legs. He reaches down and pulls my robe open all the way. I lift my arms out of the robe and wrap them around him. Then he rolls me until I’m on top of him. I sit up and he lifts me at the waist until I’m hovering above his erection. He’s right there; the tip is touching me. All I have to do is push down and he will be inside of me. And I want him to be. Because I need to touch and be touched. But Isaac is hesitating. He doesn’t want to let go of my waist. He’s thinking of his wife; I’m thinking of his wife. I’m about to tell him, forget it, when he abruptly releases his hold on my waist. Without him suspending me, and with no warning I slide onto him. I suck air loudly. It’s a gasp if I’ve ever heard one. One minute I’m empty, the next I’m full. A deep, slow panic. He does not belong to me. What am I doing?

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  AMBIVALENT ATTRACTIONSStrong attractions, whether lusty or limerent, are usually single-mindedly definite. The fact that our attractions can be so compelling, yet not controlled by logic, means that, sooner or later, most of us will come across a person who magnetically draws us while simultaneously repells us in some way. As strange as it may seem, an ambivalent attraction can, all by itself, make the object more exciting. Those who are sexually attracted to men seem to be particularly inclined to find themselves simultaneously drawn and repelled. Among The Group, mixed feelings toward partners are mentioned much more frequently by the three subgroups drawn to men: bisexual women (25 percent), gay men (18 percent), and straight women (15 percent). Like Laura, a successful stockbroker, they usually mention traditionally masculine qualities that are both arousing and distasteful: There was a big, muscular hunk in my office who was always putting the make on me. His attitudes about almost everything disgusted me, even the way he propositioned me was so tasteless I had to refuse. But just thinking about him made my blood boil. Once after an office party, I let him drive me home. We made out in the car. Unfortunately, he was a terrific kisser. I invited him in. Rarely have I felt so excited. In bed he was aggressive, yet totally aware of what I wanted. His body was even better naked. I’ve been refusing him ever since. He’s still a pig at the office but I’ll always enjoy that memory. Why would anyone be moved by such profound, erotic stirrings toward someone so distasteful? Laura is quite articulate about her dilemma: I can’t tell you how much I resent that masculine superiority shit. I guess he gets to me because he’s the exact opposite of the way I think people should be. It pisses me off to think that this tension could excite me so (I would never admit it to anyone). The truth is, I’m incapable of feeling indifferent toward him and the bastard knows it, too. Ambivalent attractions refuse to be limited by logic or politics, a fact that Laura reluctantly acknowledges because she’s too smart not to. She realizes that the contrasts between her and “the hunk,” intensified by her negative emotions toward him—not to mention his terrific body—all combine to produce an unavoidable attraction. As is so often the case, the more she tries to resist it, the stronger it becomes. OVERCOMING AMBIVALENCE THROUGH FANTASYEven though her wayward attraction bothered her, at least Laura enjoyed her encounter. For many others, ambivalent turn-ons are as distressingly negative as they are compelling. In such instances, the erotic mind displays an uncanny ability to convert negative real-life experiences into exciting fantasies. Notice how George, a gay man approaching forty, transforms a traumatic encounter into something positive:

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I don’t eat pork.” I heard the screen slam behind her. Max raced for the door, barking, his nails clicking against the tile as he scrambled past me. I leaned back in my chair, smiling. I didn’t eat pork either. Except bacon, of course. Everyone eats bacon. She showed up on Tuesday, right at six. I had no idea when to expect her, so I made sushi with the salmon I’d bought that morning from the market. I was busy wrapping my rolls in seaweed when she let herself in. I heard the screen door slam and Max’s manic barking. She slid a bottle of whiskey across the counter. “Most people bring wine,” I said. “Most people are pussies.” I choked on my laugh. “What’s your name?” “Brenna. What’s yours?” “You already know my name.” It was mostly true. She knew my pen name. “Your real name,” she said. “It’s Nick Nissley.” “So much better than John Karde. Who are you hiding from?” She unscrewed the lid from the Jack and drank straight from the bottle. “Everyone.” “Me, too.” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye as I poured soy sauce into two ramekins. She was young, much younger than me. What did she have to hide from? Probably an ex-boyfriend. Nothing serious. Just a guy who didn’t want to let go, most likely. I had some exes who probably wanted to hide from me. It was a shallow thought, because if this woman was really that simple, she wouldn’t have struck my interest. I saw her standing still and quiet, and she caused movement in my brain. I’d already written over sixteen thousand words since she’d walked with me to my house and then disappeared. A feat, considering I’d been claiming writer’s block for the last year of my life. No, if this woman said she was running away, she was. “Brenna,” I said that night as we lay in my bed. “Mmmm.” I said it again, tracing a finger along her arm. “Why do you keep saying my name?” “Because it’s beautiful. I’ve known Brianna’s, but never a Brenna.” “Well, congratulations to you.” She rolled off the bed and reached for her skirt. That skirt had been what started it all. I see a skirt and I want to know what’s underneath it. “Where are you going?” The corner of her mouth lifted. “Do I look like the kind of girl who sleeps over on the first date?” “No ma’am.” She fished around on the floor for the last of her clothes, and then I walked her to the door. “Can I take you home?” “No.” “Why not?” “I don’t want you to know where I live.” I scratched my head. “But you know where I live.” “Exactly,” she said. She pushed up on her toes and kissed me on the mouth. “Tastes like a New York Times Bestseller ,” she said. “Goodnight, Nick.” I watched her go and felt conflicted.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Self-employed, I was guessing. “You’re a writer, too,” I said. She nodded. “So we speak the same language,” I offered. She had a strip of silver running through her brown hair. More proof, it seemed, that she was born for winter. “You’re John Karde,” she said. “I’ve seen your picture. In Barnes and Noble.” “Well, that’s embarrassing.” “Only if I don’t like sappy women’s fiction,” she said. “Which I do.” “Do you write it?” She shook her head, and I swear that sliver of silver glimmered in the dying sun. My nerdy writer mind immediately said mithril. “I’m working on my first real novel. It feels pretty angry.” “Let’s talk about it over dinner,” I offered. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I mean, sure she was stunning—but it was more than that. She was a house with no windows. You could go crazy in one of those. I wanted in. She eyed my dog. “I can drop him off, my house is on the way to town.” She paused only to check her watch before nodding. We walked in silence for a few blocks. She kept her head down, choosing the sidewalk over the rest of the world. I wondered if she liked the cracks, or if she just didn’t want to meet the eyes of the people we passed. It might have felt uncomfortable, our quiet walking, but it didn’t. I suspected her to be a woman of few words. Muses often spoke with their eyes and their bodies. The power they supply is electrifying in itself. They set fire to your synapses. She waited at the edge of my driveway, even though I invited her in, toeing a stray weed that had forced its way up through the concrete. I wasn’t much of a gardener. My yard looked unloved. I walked Max back up to the house and opened the door I never locked. I stopped by his water bowl and topped it off under the faucet while he watched me. Max knew my routine with women. I’d take her to dinner, I’d say things about my writing and my passion, then we’d come back here. Before I went back outside, I ran my fingers through my hair, grabbed a piece of Juicy Fruit off the counter, and stepped into the chill. She was gone. It was then I realized that I had never asked her name. I never really told her mine—not my real one, anyway. I carefully unfolded the gum from its wrapper, sticking the yellow strip between my teeth. I pocketed the piece of wax paper, scanning the street for some sign of her. I’d just lost a girl I really wanted to know. It didn’t feel good. Nick’s Book She came back. Two days later.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Those who, like Grace, must overcome obstacles on the way to an encounter usually engage in tender yet passionate lovemaking once they finally do get together. On the other hand, those like Will, who savor the energy of high-tension relationships, usually engage in rougher, more boisterous sex. KEEPING A DISTANCEBecause the erotic impulse seeks to bridge the space that separates self from other, among the most effective of all enhancing obstacles is distance—physical, emotional, or geographic. When you’re erotically drawn to someone new, the mystery of the unknown creates a realization of distance. This is one reason that visual stimulation is often so crucial to the initiation of sexual interest. Your eyes allow you to reach across the chasm of psychic and physical space, to catch a glimpse of someone who activates your fascination. During flirtation one or both participants play with distance by meeting the other’s gaze and then turning away. Perhaps, like me, you’ve noticed that flirting takes on a special intensity when circumstances make fulfillment impossible, as when the flirters are about to board different planes at an airport, are rushing off to business meetings, or are with other people and not in a position to respond. Over the years I’ve heard many married people say, often with consternation, that they were never so attractive to so many people when single. Partly, of course, their lack of neediness places them in a strong, relaxed position, especially compared to those who are desperately searching for someone. However, there’s no denying that the unavailability of those who are spoken for boosts their erotic appeal enormously. The role of distance in keeping erotic interest high is especially obvious when lovers must overcome the obstacle of geography. Those who are forced to endure an ongoing separation wait eagerly for the next chance to see each other. During periods of reunification, erotic sparks are likely to fly. When such relationships survive—obviously the strains are enormous—they typically retain a high erotic intensity long after their living-together counterparts have settled into more comfortable but sexually cooler routines. In both love and lust, the challenge is to find an optimal distance—neither too close nor too far. If you think of sexual arousal as being like an electric spark, you can easily visualize how the size of the gap separating the two poles is crucial. If the gap grows too large, even the high voltage of strong attraction will be unable to jump it. But if the gap becomes too narrow, especially if the poles continually touch, the circuit is completed, making sparks impossible. No wonder successful long-term lovers must find creative ways to balance their closeness with the separateness necessary for erotic enthusiasm.

• From The Strange Order of Things: Life, Feeling, and the Making of Cultures (2018)

  Still, non-consciously, their actions aim at persistence into the future and these actions are the consequences of particular chemical substrates and interactions. This indomitable intention corresponds to the “force” that the philosopher Spinoza intuited and named the conatus . We now understand that it is present at the microscopic scale of each living cell, and we can envision it projected, at the macroscopic scale, everywhere we look in nature: to our whole organisms, made up of trillions of cells, to the billions of neurons in our brains, to the minds that arise in our embodied brains, and to the countless cultural phenomena that the collectives of human organisms have been constructing and tinkering with for millennia. The continuous attempt at achieving a state of positively regulated life is a defining part of our existence—the first reality of our existence, as Spinoza would say when he described the relentless endeavor of each being to preserve itself. A blend of striving, endeavor, and tendency comes close to rendering the Latin conatus, as used by Spinoza in propositions 6, 7, and 8 of the Ethics, part 3. In Spinoza’s own words, “Each thing, as far as it can be its own power, strives to persevere in its being,” and “The striving by which each thing strives to persevere in its being is nothing but the actual essence of the thing.” Interpreted with the advantage of current hindsight, Spinoza says that the living organism is constructed so as to maintain the coherence of its structures and functions, for as long as possible, against the odds that threaten it. It is interesting to note that Spinoza reached these conclusions before Maupertuis advanced the principle of least action (Spinoza died almost half a century before). He would have welcomed the support. 4 In spite of the transformations that the body undergoes as it develops, renews its constituent parts, and ages, the conatus insists on maintaining the same individual, respecting the original architectural plan, and thus allowing for the sort of animation that is associated with that plan. The animation can vary in scope, corresponding to life processes merely sufficient to survive or to achieve optimal life processes. The poet Paul Éluard wrote about the dur désir de durer, another way of describing the conatus but with the alliterative beauty of a memorable collection of French sounds. I can translate it, pallidly, as the “determined desire to endure.” And William Faulkner wrote of the human desire to “endure and prevail.” He, too, was referring, with remarkable intuition, to the projection of the conatus in the human mind. 5 Life on the Move There are plenty of bacteria around us, on us, and inside us, today, but there are no examples left around of those very early bacteria of 3.8 billion years ago.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Like most aspects of erotic life, lusty objectification isn’t so simple. At its best it is an effective source of validation and approval. Having a desired partner perceive you as the object of desire can be flattering and exhilarating. Both men and women—although by no means all—crave opportunities to be responded to as sex objects, and more than a few bemoan the fact that it happens too rarely. And as a society we spend billions of dollars and untold hours trying to make ourselves attractive sexual objects. To objectify is also to externalize, to recognize the desired one as the other—that is, to see clearly that he or she is outside oneself. This quality of otherness is absolutely essential for attraction. Not only is the object separated from the self, but that person is invested with sufficient value to make him or her worthy of pursuit. One of the most beneficial features of lusty objectification is how it facilitates selective perceptions and idealizations. When you lust after someone, you naturally emphasize the qualities you find most appealing. Because lust focuses exclusively on turn-ons and screens out everything else, it’s an extremely effective attraction booster. Even in an established relationship, in which you know and care for your partner as a whole person, look closely, and you’ll probably notice how selectively attending to particular characteristics helps stir your passions when you’re in a sexy mood. Sonya, a thirty-eight-year-old member of The Group, describes how her fantasy life revolves around lusty objectification: I hardly ever have complete fantasy stories like the ones in books. When I want to get hot I just imagine a beautiful set of male buns. I love to scan my eyes from the wide, muscular shoulders, down the v-shaped back, to that sloping transition from back to butt. The very top of the crack thrills me, especially when I catch a glimpse of it at the beach when a hot guy is wearing a skimpy swim suit. A gorgeous set of buns calls out to be caressed by my eyes or fingers. I go nuts over ones with dimple indentations on the sides. At the moment I can’t get enough of my boyfriend’s buns. Like him, they’re perfect! I’m always grabbing him there which he seems to like. When I’m alone and horny I just think of him slowly peeling off his shorts while I watch from behind. Whereas men have always readily described themselves as “tit men,” “leg men,” or the like, only recently have women, like Sonya, allowed themselves to admit to having a focused appreciation for specific physical attributes.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Even as I come across pages of Knotted and hand them to Isaac, it is the nameless book that catches my attention. Each page has a line that pulls at my eyes. I read them, re-read them. No one I know writes this way, yet it is so familiar. I feel a lust for this author’s words. A jealousy at being able to string such rich sentences together. The first line keeps coming back to me with each subsequent line I read. The punishment for her peace was upon him, and he gave her rest. I don’t notice when Isaac disappears from the room to make us food. I smell it when he comes back and hands me a bowl of soup. I set it aside, intent on finishing my work, but he picks it up and places it back in my hands. “Eat it,” he instructs me. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I reluctantly place the spoon in my mouth, sucking the salty brown broth. I set the spoon aside and drink from the bowl, my eyes still scanning the piles set neatly around me. My leg is aching, as is my back, but I don’t want to stop. If I ask Isaac to help me move he will guess at my discomfort and force me to rest. I rub the small of my back when he’s not looking, and press on. “I know what you’re doing,” he says, as he leans over his pile of pages. I look up in surprise. “What?” “When you think I’m not looking, I am.” I flush, and my hand automatically reaches for my aching muscles. I pull back at the last minute and curl my hand into a fist instead. Isaac snickers and shakes his head, turning back to his work. I’m glad he doesn’t press the issue. I pick up another page. It’s my own. The story I wrote for Nick. Instead of putting it on its pile, I read it. True and trite. It was my call to him. The first line of the book went like this: Every time you want to remember what love feels like, you look for me. That line grabbed every woman who had ever offered their throbbing little heart to a man. Because we all have someone who reminds us of what love stings like. That unreliquished love that slips between our fingers like sand. The second line of the book confused them a little. It’s why their eyes kept following my trail of words. I was dropping breadcrumbs for the disaster that was to come. Stay the fuck away from me.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Like most aspects of erotic life, lusty objectification isn’t so simple. At its best it is an effective source of validation and approval. Having a desired partner perceive you as the object of desire can be flattering and exhilarating. Both men and women—although by no means all—crave opportunities to be responded to as sex objects, and more than a few bemoan the fact that it happens too rarely. And as a society we spend billions of dollars and untold hours trying to make ourselves attractive sexual objects. To objectify is also to externalize, to recognize the desired one as the other—that is, to see clearly that he or she is outside oneself. This quality of otherness is absolutely essential for attraction. Not only is the object separated from the self, but that person is invested with sufficient value to make him or her worthy of pursuit. One of the most beneficial features of lusty objectification is how it facilitates selective perceptions and idealizations. When you lust after someone, you naturally emphasize the qualities you find most appealing. Because lust focuses exclusively on turn-ons and screens out everything else, it’s an extremely effective attraction booster. Even in an established relationship, in which you know and care for your partner as a whole person, look closely, and you’ll probably notice how selectively attending to particular characteristics helps stir your passions when you’re in a sexy mood. Sonya, a thirty-eight-year-old member of The Group, describes how her fantasy life revolves around lusty objectification: I hardly ever have complete fantasy stories like the ones in books. When I want to get hot I just imagine a beautiful set of male buns. I love to scan my eyes from the wide, muscular shoulders, down the v-shaped back, to that sloping transition from back to butt. The very top of the crack thrills me, especially when I catch a glimpse of it at the beach when a hot guy is wearing a skimpy swim suit. A gorgeous set of buns calls out to be caressed by my eyes or fingers. I go nuts over ones with dimple indentations on the sides. At the moment I can’t get enough of my boyfriend’s buns. Like him, they’re perfect! I’m always grabbing him there which he seems to like. When I’m alone and horny I just think of him slowly peeling off his shorts while I watch from behind. Whereas men have always readily described themselves as “tit men,” “leg men,” or the like, only recently have women, like Sonya, allowed themselves to admit to having a focused appreciation for specific physical attributes.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  *Lead-in (Morin):* Jana’s curiosity about which encounters to list reveals a thread she hadn’t seen—being pursued. **Voice — Jana:** I had trouble picking just two exciting encounters so I made a list of them all. It dawned on me that in virtually every case I’m being aggressively pursued by a handsome and determined man. My role is to act rather coy and passive, as if I want them to prove their interest in me through sheer persistence. I had never seen this so clearly before because I’m usually obsessed with how handsome the man is or how big or strong. I’ve never stopped to question what I’m feeling. But once I saw my taste for being pursued I couldn’t stop thinking about it and even brought the subject up with my therapist. I remember the desire to be pursued in sexual fantasies as far back as age eight or nine, maybe before. I use feminine poses to attract a rich and famous man. But because I’m so shy and reserved he’s “forced” to seduce me. Once I surrender he whisks me away on his yacht or horse and I feel chosen and very special. In all my fantasies today, and my best encounters too, I feel exactly the same way. The imperative of feeling desirable stands out for me because in reality I’ve never seen myself as attractive. On the contrary, I’ve always wished I were as pretty and sophisticated as my older sister. She got all the attention from guys, teachers—everyone. I was an awkward “tomboy” and I believed my parents liked her better. I remember crying myself to sleep over my fate. Now I know intellectually that I’m not ugly, but I still think of myself that way. I’m always trying to fix this by getting men to want me. If I surrender too quickly it’s not nearly so exciting as when I get the full seduction treatment. It makes me feel feminine and beguiling to be chased. I imagine they can’t resist me. Now that I live with a wonderful man I’m still always waiting for him to initiate sex (which he complains about a lot). It’s hard to admit, but when he comes on to me forcefully it’s almost like getting even with my sister who I both loved and hated for being so damned perfect. When it all works—which it always does in fantasy and occasionally in reality—I’m getting the attention I’ve craved all my life.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  As you scan your memory you’ll probably recall a variety of experiences. Keep in mind that peak encounters are not necessarily dramatic or sensational. Sometimes the best ones are remarkably simple. Nor is it necessary for peak encounters to include intercourse—or any particular sexual act. In a number of The Group’s marvelous stories the participants are fully clothed and some of the stories are exclusively visual, without any touching at all! Although the SES asks for only two peak encounters, there’s no reason to limit yourself. Feel free to recollect as many as you wish. If you haven’t yet had any erotic experiences that you consider peaks, concentrate on those that were the most appealing so far. If you haven’t had any sexual encounters yet, focus on feelings of curiosity, desire, or attraction that stand out. It might also be helpful to pay special attention to sexual fantasies, which we’ll be discussing shortly. STARTING AN EROTIC JOURNALAbove and beyond the benefits of responding to the SES, you’ll gain even more if you keep an erotic journal, which is simply a notebook in which you write memories, feelings, and impressions as they come to you. Once you establish the habit of using your journal it’s easy to add details as your memory becomes more active—which it surely will. Starting a journal also allows you to reread your comments as your self-discovery deepens; perhaps later you will see them in a new light. Please keep in mind that any writing you do in the SES or your journal must be for your eyes only. Your writing will touch on a host of possible topics you might want to discuss with someone when the time is right. Such intimate exchanges can be extremely useful and fulfilling. But by keeping the writing itself private, you will avoid subtle inhibitions that can cause you to hold back, perhaps without even realizing it. EXPLORING FAVORITE FANTASIESAs you recall some of your memorable encounters, I also want you to start thinking about another dimension of eroticism with which some people are more familiar than others—the realm of the erotic imagination. Sexual fantasies take an infinite variety of forms, and each individual has his or her unique patterns and preferences. Fantasies spring from the depths of your erotic mind and are invaluable sources of information, which is why I included questions about them in the SES. I’m well aware, however, that the complexity of sexual fantasies, along with the fact that imaginary erotic scenes often do not conform to our ideals or values, makes them more difficult to explore than real-life encounters.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  I always find it ironic that in real life I never willingly let men have their way with me or put me down. Yet my fantasies all revolve around my lack of control. I think it comes from my old belief that “good girls don’t.” If I have no say over what is happening then I’m not to blame for my enjoyment. I’m just following orders. Max, a bisexual man who has a primary relationship with a woman as well as occasional trysts with men, explores similar themes of responsibility from a man’s perspective: Sally and I have a terrific sexual relationship filled with passion and experimentation. But there are definite limits. Maybe it’s because I’m a guy, or maybe because I’m big and muscular, but Sally expects me to take charge, especially when we fuck. I’ve told her I like to be passive sometimes and she sort of tries to take control, but I can tell it’s just an act for her. I like feeling powerful when she surrenders to me, but I don’t like controlling everything all the time. I’ve always had a special kind sexual interest in men. I recently met a bisexual guy who’s almost as large as me and who gets off on being on top. I see him once in a while, but one time was the absolute best. I had confided in him that I fantasize being tied up. Some time later he used rubber strips to tie me to the bed frame. The rush of excitement was incredible as he stimulated me relentlessly. He sucked me almost to the point of coming and then backed off. I was surprised how I enjoyed a little pain when he pinched my nipples, tugged on my balls, or rolled me partway over and slapped my ass. The high point for me was when he got out a rubber and lube and—after loosening me up with his fingers for a good half hour—fucked me masterfully while he jacked me off. It was better than my fantasy. Max expresses a complaint similar to those of several straight male members of The Group: that they are usually, if not always, expected to be dominant. This means rarely getting a chance to occupy the center of attention as an enthusiastic bottom. The fact that Max is bisexual and met an eager top gave him an opportunity to be submissive in a way that’s obviously not readily available for most straight men—except through fantasy. Unlike Max’s girlfriend, some women thoroughly enjoy opportunities to dominate men sexually. But a number of men have told me that even though they fantasize about being dominated, they have a very difficult time actually surrendering to women—especially those they care about. Perhaps this is one reason that so many prostitutes report that male customers who make specific requests usually want to be dominated in one way or another.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I am moved that this room has been given such attention to detail, especially when the rest of the place has a just-moved-in feel. He offers me a glass of wine and we sit on the beige L-shaped sofa. The television is on but muted, and I can see the local news flickering. He seems distracted by the TV, his eyes darting over every few minutes to follow the news stories, but he makes no move to turn it off. He asks me what I want to do for the evening and I tell him that he gets to decide since we are on his turf. He decides to take me for a drive in his convertible down to the water, where there is a bar he likes. First, he has to change his clothes. He goes into his bedroom but leaves the door open, and I can see him pull his T-shirt over his head before turning the corner toward the closet. I think back to my first night of sex, with #1, how I nervously took off all my clothes while he was in the bathroom, and I wonder again if this is a cue. Am I supposed to follow him to his room? Did he want me to, but not want to say it for fear of being too forward? If he didn’t want me to, wouldn’t he have closed his door? I set my glass of wine on a sports magazine on the coffee table and walk quietly to his bedroom, where I lean against the doorway, watching him get dressed. He has put on a pair of jeans and is buttoning a purple-and-white checked Oxford shirt. When he sees me watching him, he asks if his outfit looks OK. “Yes, it looks quite good,” I respond, a smile slowly forming. “But maybe don’t go through all the trouble of buttoning it.” He comes to the doorway and faces me, coyly asking, “Oh no? What should I do with it?” “Let me see what’s underneath it,” I say, my fingers already undoing the top button. When I finish with the bottom button, I let my hand linger on his stomach. His ab muscles are rock-hard, his six-pack defined and angular. He stands still, watching me eye him, not making a move closer to me but not moving away either. “I think we should have sex before we leave,” I state matter-of-factly. “Oh really?” he says, laughing. “You can’t wait, huh?” “Of course I can wait,” I say. “I just don’t want to.” I put my hands on his shoulders so that I can push the shirt down his arms and off. He has the firefighter body of my dreams, each muscle distinct and firm without being excessively bulky. I unsnap the narrow belt cinching my dress in and then pull down the flimsy straps so that I can shimmy out of it.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  When he continues to putter around the small room, I pat the space on the bed next to me and beckon him to sit. It is amusing and surprising to me that I seem to have moved from being the downtrodden to the aggressor but I feel compelled to coax this tryst along as best I can. I am so nervous that I can’t believe I have the power to make someone else nervous, but in spite of my anxiety, I am determined. I don’t quite understand why I feel like I absolutely must have sex and with no particular concern for who it is that joins me in this pursuit, I just know that ever since my night with #1, I feel like I’m blindly stumbling into the sunlight after a long period of hibernation. I want to feel wanted and I need to prove to myself that my first try was not just a one-time windfall. That I’m here with someone who is at least ten years older than me, who has just had half a lung removed, who has worked for me in my home, who wears a cross and talks a lot about his passion for his church and has an inexplicable constellation of bath mats on his kitchen floor – none of that matters to me as much as the fact that he’s a muscular, fit man who is not repelled by me and there are no children on my radar at the moment. I almost whisper “hallelujah” when he finally leans toward me to kiss me. I pull my tank top off and help him with that damn strapless bra that I was worried would stymie #1 the last time (a note about the bra: when you have substantial boobs and you’ve nursed three children and you find a strapless bra that holds your boobs in place and miraculously makes them look firm and buoyant, not just like one solid row of breasts, you continue to wear that strapless bra no matter how hard it is to unhook). His shirt is off too and I see tattoos sprinkled across his chest, contributing to my excitement over doing slightly illicit, dangerous things – which is silly as Johnny could not be less threatening, but I try to go with the vibe I’ve conjured up. We are lying down now and the only noise in the room is the incredibly loud panting of the dog standing guard. I eye Floyd furtively and I swear the dog is shooting me looks of pure loathing – it’s more than a little distracting. “Johnny,” I pull back and whisper, “is there any chance you can put Floyd out of the room for a little while?” “No, I can’t, I’m sorry. He’s used to being here alone with me and he’ll get upset if I put him out.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  He did things like run his finger up my thighs, gently brushing against my pubic hairs, which raised goose bumps across my body. When he turned me over he touched my nipples so lightly with his tongue that I was practically screaming for more, but he would only do it for a moment and then move on. I have no idea what got into him that day, but he teased me into one of the most intense orgasms of my life. Experts typically explain the desire of so many women for extended foreplay on the basis of the slower rhythms of female sexual physiology. Beatrice’s story reminds us that there is often much more involved. A slow, sensuous buildup of arousal is among the few ways established couples can experience the miracles of anticipation. Unfortunately, men are sometimes reluctant to go slowly because they associate prolonged anticipation with being thwarted or put off—a common and frustrating experience in men’s sexual histories. LONGING AND FULFILLMENTThe erotic significance of longing is impossible to deny. Yet one of the great paradoxes of erotic life is that even though longing craves fulfillment, fulfillment dampens longing. In some instances longing evaporates immediately after the last barrier to access dissolves. An extreme but not unusual example is a pair of coworkers who maintain a strong but “impossible” sexual curiosity for years, only to be permanently satiated by a single chance encounter—perhaps even a very good one. Some erotic fascinations are founded on unavailability and simply can’t survive without it. In more complex attractions, longing normally subsides during and after a passionate encounter, but returns once the lovers part. Yearning renews their passion—at least for a time. However, the predictable togetherness of living-together partnerships often makes longing increasingly difficult to sustain. For more than a few lovers, the demise of longing is a serious impediment to ongoing desire. Yet even couples with relatively few opportunities for longing can still benefit occasionally from its aphrodisiac effects. Sometimes even a brief separation caused by independent travel or the emotional distance created by an argument can be remarkably effective at rekindling longing. In fact, almost 10 percent of The Group’s peak encounters are reunions following such separations or fights. Other subtle manifestations of longing aren’t necessarily dampened by togetherness. I’ve worked with many people in couple’s therapy who describe yearning for certain emotions or behaviors that remain out of reach despite the existence of a committed relationship. One woman repeatedly explained to her husband (he thought she was nagging) how much she craved more emotional closeness with him. On those rare occasions when he disclosed intimate feelings to her, she felt incredibly excited. Her fondest memory was one night when they cried together and then made passionate love. As therapy continued, he revealed how much he longed for those equally rare instances when she totally surrendered to sex. He hadn’t realized that his own emotional openness was the magic potion that brought her passions to life.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  My vicious PLN army/gang, I love you! Sundae Coletti, Jennifer Stiltner, Robin Stranahan, Dyann Tufts, Robin Segnitz, Amy Holloway, Krystle Zion, Sandra Cortez, Nelly Martinez de Iraheta, Monica Martinez, Sarah Kaiser, Chelsea Peden McCrory, Dawnita Kiefer, Miranda Howard, Courtney Mazal, Yoss, Kristin McNally, Tre Hathaway, Shelly Ford, Maribel Zamora, Maria Milano, Fizza Hussain, Brooke Higgins, Paula Roper, Joanna Hoffman Dursi, Marivett Villafane, Amy Miller Sayler, and my favorite Kristy Garner. I wish I could list you all. Since publishing my first book, I have met so many people who made me view the world differently. There is none more rare and precious than Colleen Hoover. She is a light shining in darkness. Thank you for loving Mud Vein, and for recognizing our red thread. You have no heart, and you have the biggest heart. And finally, to the God who says: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” I live for you, mud vein and all. [image file=image0_1.jpg] I packed, drove, and showered quickly so I could make the morning meeting on time. I wondered if April would be there now that she seemed close to being brought on as a full-time teacher. Hopefully she would be. I’d have to decide whether to sit next to her and breathe in her intoxicating floral scent or if I wanted to sit on the opposite side of the room so I could simply look. Or stare. Let’s face it—I would probably stare. The room was half-full when I arrived with five minutes to spare. A few of the teachers looked up when I came in. Their faces registered surprise, clearly not expecting to see me back so soon. I got a few nods in my direction, but no one spoke. Teachers aren’t usually morning people unless they’ve had their cup or two or six of coffee. Their silence made it evident that the liquid brown drug was not yet coursing through their bodies. Or that seeing me was a little awkward, considering the state I was in when they last saw me. I tugged on the collar of my shirt and ducked my head. April was seated on the second row and seemed to be lost in a pile of paper on her lap. She was wearing a long-sleeve white button-up shirt, with the sleeves folded halfway up her forearm. Her skirt was black, and her hair was back in a ponytail. Her outfit brought to mind just about every teacher fantasy I had ever allowed myself to indulge in while growing up. Because her hair was pulled back, the pearly white skin of her neck was exposed. God, I was starting to have serious vampire thoughts. I will kiss that neck, I told myself. More than once. I will.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Nick looks confused, then it comes. He sees his replacement, the guy locked in a house with his ex-muse. “The doctor?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “Isaac. His name is Isaac.” “I’m your soulmate. I wrote that book for you.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself, bobbing Adam’s apple and all. “You don’t know the first thing about what it is to have a soulmate.” I feel such a pull toward Isaac I wonder if he’s having this same fight with Daphne. “It’s time for you to leave,” I say. It feels so good to say it. Because this time, I’m not even going to cry. [image file=image44.jpg] Before I shower, before I eat, before I crawl into bed and sleep off my fourteen-month nightmare, I call a cab. I have him pull into my garage, then I stand next to his window and check him out. Small guy, early twenties, bald by choice. I can see the shadows of where his hair should be. He’s fighting that receding hairline with a shaved head. Defiant and a little ballsy, because we can all see why he’s doing it. His eyes are wide and shifty; either the news vans freaked him out, or he’s having withdrawals. He’ll do, I think. I climb into the front seat. “Do you mind?” I ask. But I don’t really care if he says no. I buckle my seatbelt. “Take me to one of those stores with the lumber and the tools.” He spits out a couple options and I shrug. “Whatever.” We pull past the news vans and I smile at them. I don’t know why except that it’s kind of funny. I used to be famous for my books, now I’m famous for something else. It kind of constipates your mind; being famous for something that someone else did to you. I make my cabbie wait while I run into the home fix-it store he chose. The building is expansive. I walk quickly past the lighting and the doorknobs until I find what I am looking for. I am there for thirty-five minutes while two employees see to my order. I have no purse or credit cards, just the wad of hundred dollar bills I shoved into my back pocket before I left the house. I kept them in an old cookie tin in my pantry for one day; a rainy day, a needy day, a day I just felt like blowing a wad of cash. Now there were only a few days left, so I figured it was time to spend. I toss three of the bills at the cashier and wheel my purchases out to the cab. I won’t let him help me. I stack everything in the trunk, and climb back into the front seat.

• From Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (1989)

  1 . 3 1) . Lock e thinks of desire as a kind o f uneasiness. "All pain of the b od y, of w hat sort soever, and disq u i et of the mind, is uneasiness" (ibid.). D e s i r e for so methin g is then seen as a spec i es of this genus. It is an uneasiness a r o u s e d , by the absence of some good. B ut not all things which are good for u s p ro vo ke unea siness i n their absence, not ev en all the things which we know ar e g o od for us. The greate r good in view doesn't always move us. If it did, ar g u e s L ock e, we wo uld clea r l y spend the greater part o f our efforts ensuring o u r e t ern al salvati on (2..2.1 .38 ) . W hat must happen f or a good t o motivate us is that it must come to a � o u s e a n u neasi ness in u s. It mo ves us only through its connection with this disqu i e t . "G ood and evil, pres ent and absent, i t i s true, work upon the mind. B u t t h at w hich immediate l y d eter mi nes the will, from time to time, to every x70 • INWARDNESS voluntary action, is the uneasiness of desire" (2..2.1.33, emphasis in orig in a l) . Locke characteristically shows how lhis must be so by in voking a qu a si mech anical argument: "Another reason why it is uneasiness alone determi n e s the will, is this: because it alone is present and, it i s agains t the natu r e of t hings that what is absent should operate where it is not" (2..2.1.37). H i s t heory is grounded on the well-known mechanical principle excluding acti o n at a distance. Thus Locke carries disengagement to unprecedented lengths: even o u r motivated action to what brings us pleasure is not ro ck bottom in the o rd e r of assembly. It has to aris e through a c onnection bein g established with an inner state, which is itsel f without any intrinsic object. We see the re m o t e origins .of modem reductiv e psychology and the theory of reinforc emen t. Where twentieth-century psychologists speak of 'habits', Locke speaks of th e association that each of us makes betwee n inner unease an d certain g oods a s our 'relish' (2..21.5 6 ). Thi s can be and has been the basis of a purely determinist the o ry o f motivation, which sees people as invariabl y impelled by their strongest desires.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  He kisses me. Hard at first—like he’s angry—but when I touch his face he softens. It’s when his lips drag slowly across mine, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth that I relax. My legs lift off of the table and my feet cradle his waist. Heat; heat on the arches of my feet, heat on my mouth, heat pressed between my legs. He reaches down and pulls my robe open all the way. I lift my arms out of the robe and wrap them around him. Then he rolls me until I’m on top of him. I sit up and he lifts me at the waist until I’m hovering above his erection. He’s right there; the tip is touching me. All I have to do is push down and he will be inside of me. And I want him to be. Because I need to touch and be touched. But Isaac is hesitating. He doesn’t want to let go of my waist. He’s thinking of his wife; I’m thinking of his wife. I’m about to tell him, forget it, when he abruptly releases his hold on my waist. Without him suspending me, and with no warning I slide onto him. I suck air loudly. It’s a gasp if I’ve ever heard one. One minute I’m empty, the next I’m full. A deep, slow panic. He does not belong to me. What am I doing? I try to climb off him, but he grabs my wrists and rolls on top of me, pinning me down. He kisses me slowly with both hands pressed against the sides of my face, all the while moving slowly in and out of me. “I want to be with you,” he says into my mouth. “Stop it.” So I stop it. I let him kiss and stroke and touch and I don’t fight him. We’ve only had sex once; in the rain, on the carousel, with me on top. Now, it doesn’t feel so much like sex. It feels intimate. I’ve never done what we are doing. Not with anyone. Not even with Nick. I’ve never laced my hands in a man’s hair and breathed into his mouth with abandon, and wanted him to be as deeply inside of me as he could—because it felt more real that way. And a man has never buried his face into my neck and moaned, like every movement inside of me is worth a reaction.

• From Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (1989)

  Certain of the things Baudelaire says make it sound familia r enough. Behind the fallen natural world stands a spiritual world, an d art can bring this to epiphany. Nature is ugly, but the imagination of th e artist allows him "de saisir les parcelles du beau egarees sur la terre, de suivre le beau a l a piste partout ou ii a p u glisser a travers les trivialites de la nature dechue" ("t o seize upon the bits of beauty sca tt ered about the earth, to follow beauty's trail wherever it has managed to slip in admist the trivialities of fallen nature"). 47 Baudelaire often refers to this spiritual world whose fragments the artist thus g athe rs in the traditional terms of Renaissance n eo -Platonism, in terms o f 'correspondences', as though things had a spiritual significance which linked them in chains of equivalence: La Nature est un temple ou de vivan t s piliers Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles; L'homme y passe a travers des for-ets de sy m boles Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers. Nature is a temple whose living colonnades Breathe fort h a mystic s p eech in fitfu l sighs; Man wanders among symbo ls in those glades Where all things w a tch him with familiar eyes. 4 8 Visions of the Post-Romantic Age · 437 Bu t other things that Baudelaire says, and much of his poetry, don't fit very well with this picture of the poet g athering shards and hints of s upernatural beauty. There are q uite o ther k ind s of epiphany , in which we are thrown he a dlong into evil and ugliness and decay. In part this reflects Baudelaire's ambivalent stance towards the Manic h aean universe he sees: Sat anism, to plu n ge into evil to the point of intoxication, of releasing a "f risson galvanique", seems as valid a response a s askesis-perhaps even an alternative route to the same goal. What must be avoided at all cost s is banality and the dead, inert time of ordinary ugliness . II faut toujours etre ivre. Tout est l a: c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir ('horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos epaules et vous penche vers la ter re , ii faut vous enivrer sans tre v e. Mais de quoi? De vin, de p oesie ou de venu, a votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous. One should alway be drunk. Thaf s the great thing; the only question. Not to f eel the horrible burden of Time weighing o n your shoulders and bowing you to the eanh, you should be drunk without respite. Drunk with w hat? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please.